


Drinking is an Active Verb (series)

by jenna_thorn



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-29
Updated: 2010-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a group of LoTrips vignettes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scotch (Dom/Billy)

Dom takes the bottle out onto the back porch to sit in silence.

This is scotch, not Liv's rum and frozen fruit juice blender-killing concoctions, not the halfbrew piss that Elijah swills, not the false bravado of the tequila shots that Orlando tries to drink.

MacAllan's -- too good for an impromptu party and thus probably the remnants of Bean and Viggo's two week effort to educate Lij and Orli. A failed effort, but they'd drunk history for a while, single malts and cognac and Dom's old enough to know the difference and sure as hell old enough not to make a pass at his best friend in someone else's kitchen.

He took a swig, slower now. Since he had it, he might as well give the scotch the respect it deserved. The slow burn, melting away the muscle cramp in his gut but flowing around and over the cold spot in his chest. His heart, if he were daft enough to say or even think such a stupid thing. Which he isn't. He lets the wall take his weight and slides down it, winding up in a sprawled crouch, butt cold against the damp wood of the outer deck, hearing but not seeing the ocean. He takes another careful swig and balances the bottle against his knee, watching the liquid swirl, feeling what he'd already drunk uncoil in his legs.

Golden in color, lit from within, gold highlights in a too-blonde wig and who decided that Pippin's hair would be lighter than Billy's? But Billy had those gold sparks too; Dom had seen them, close cropped and glittering with sea salt. Both of them laughing off the rush the size of the New Zealand coast, of being held in a riptide that would kill as soon as caress, of being tossed together on the far side of the world, swept up in PJ's vision of a world too magical for Hollywood.

Liquor doesn't laugh though and neither did Billy, surprised by a rush of badly timed words, squeezed into an inappropriate space between Bean's farewell toasts and obscene commentary on script changes. Having remained so long stuck in Dom's throat, trapped by imagined covers of People, Variety, The Sun, they burst forth in a garbled mess. Billy just blinked, slow and uncomprehending, not laughing, while Dom grabbed the closest bottle to hand and fled.

Scotch, good scotch, evaporates before the swallow, lifting off the tongue like words, heated by breath and unfolding, the burn of alcohol opening to the earthy scent of peat. Cheap scotch is no better than Orli's tequila, but good scotch is never cold, even when served by heathen over ice.

The door slides open on ill-fitting runners; Billy slips out, bare feet careful on the wood decking. Dom ignores him, concentrating with furious effort on not breathing as he tips the bottle again. He's so intent on not humiliating himself by sputtering that he is surprised to find that Billy has dropped crosslegged next to him, disdaining the moldy plastic chairs. Billy takes the bottle from him and Dom watches his own knees, not seeing the sky, not seeing the bottle, not seeing Billy's mouth as he waits for words, keeping the status quo, the importance of friends, professionalism.

The warmth of the scotch is a comfort as he waits.

But it chills in comparison to the burn of Billy's stubble, twelve hours since makeup, scratching along his as Billy kisses him.


	2. Earl Grey

Ian blew over the oil sheened surface of his tea and winced. He was delighted to be part of this project, thrilled to be playing a role he loved, and appalled to be spending his early mornings with hyper-active Hobbits reporting for makeup before dawn. Later in the day, the former would outweigh the latter, but now, with the chill of the morning locking up his hands and glue pulling his eyebrows awry, he was keeping silent in order to keep from snarling randomly at people as they moved about the catering tent.

"Coffee?" Elijah was not so much losing his California accent as adding to it, an overlay based more on Boyd's slurred vowels than anything the dialogue coach would encourage.

"Tea, actually. For civilized people, not colonials and Hobbits. Some local company's version of Earl Grey." Ian fought the urge to rub at his eyebrow and watched the cast and crew mill about. The weather had drawn out new faces, people who would be shooting in the months to come, milling about in blue jeans, incongruous amid the flowing robes and chain mail.

Elijah pulled the cup from his hand. Ian allowed him to do so with a sigh. He wasn't a purist and years of location shoots had taught him to accept certain inconveniences but styrofoam was not an acceptable container for foodstuffs. At the catering line across the tent, Cate Blanchett, a far cry from Galadriel in her short skirt and sensible shoes, sipped from the twin of his tea and swallowed with a carefully schooled expression. _Welcome to location shooting, my dear. Miss home yet?_ he thought and mused on the practicality of buying a few of the local ceramic mugs for his own use. Then again, considering his trailer mates, they'd be used for beer. Or worse, sodas. He saw Elijah raise the cup to his lips and warned him, "Don't burn your tongue."

"It's bitter."

"It's an acquired taste," Ian replied dryly. He watched their Eomer approach and waited for Elijah to do something embarrassing. The boy had a talent for it.

"Who would want to acquire it?" As though on cue he made a face, tongue curling out, eyes scrunched.

"Hey, you've been doing some study!" Eomer had reached the table just in time.

"What?"

"Maori warrior face - to strike terror into the hearts of their foes," the other answered, _That's right_, Ian thought. _He's a Kiwi_. He hid his smile at the image of their esteemed director juxtaposed with the hairy bird he'd seen pictures of. The New Zealander demonstrated, curling his tongue to his chin and bugging out his eyes. "But normally you shout too. Half the stunties are at least part Maori, they could probably tell you more."

"As a matter of fact I believe he was making an 'American Pepsi-swilling heathen reaction to English tea' face, but we thank you for the insight into local culture." Ian retrieved the styrofoam cup from Elijah who was still staring at the other man in horrified fascination.

Eomer _at some point, I must learn his name. Charles, perhaps?_ stepped back and grinned before loping off with enviable agility, undoubtedly to do something youthful elsewhere, away from cranky arthritic old men and impossibly blue-eyed child actors. Ian wrapped his hands again around the tea, but there was too little warmth left to help.

\---:::---

Through the weeks that followed, Ian would remember that moment -- Karl's impromptu Maori impersonation, Elijah's sweet tooth, the ghastly aftertaste that styrofoam left in everything. He would watch Aragon grieve over Boromir's corpse, watch Viggo's half-smirking, hooded-eyed smile at Bean, watch the two of them sit apart during Bean's last pub crawl with the Fellowship. He would see them brush fingers when no one was about, or roughhouse when someone was. And as Viggo appeared on set after seeing Bean's plane off, he would think of boys, and men, and who would choose to acquire a taste for bitter bergamot oil in tea.


	3. Tequila

Orli pulled the bottle to rest atop his knees, letting it hide his eyes as he stared around the room. Viggo slurred when he was drunk. Well, okay, he slurred any time the camera wasn't on him, drawling his words out at his own pace. But drunk, the vowels lengthened further, consonants fell away and only Bean could make out words. Or maybe they just thought enough alike. Sean was finishing Elijah's sentences, so maybe it was like that. But Bean wsn't drawn in Viggo's wake, like Sean was Elijah's. They were matched but neither led, more like Dom and Billy, orbiting one another. Those two were a couple, even if they weren't sleeping together. Or at least, he amended, not yet.

He let his head fall back, rolling it to the left to try to pull the kink out of his shoulders, knowing it wouldn't. He stretched one shoulder back, then the other, considered briefly asking one of the others to dig an elbow or a thumb into it, but they'd paired off, as always. Sir Ian's rolling chuckle entwined with John's growl of a laugh floated in from the kitchen. Elijah and Dom battled via the Playstation, but Dom's bare feet were locked in Billy's, and Sean sat crosslegged, steady against Elijah's thigh.

Orlando sat, back to the counter, watching everyone in the room touch. He brought the bottle to his lips once more and told himself that his skin didn't ache.


	4. Whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written to a prompt from Cluegirl on LJ.

Sean's trainers were silent on the warehouse concrete, but the sleeves of his jacket shuffed against the body and Viggo shushed him as he dropped to crouch behind a table of decapitated orc heads glaring with empty eyes into the gloom. He refused to be unnerved by it. At least, he refused to admit he was unnerved by it. The white paint of the hand of Saruman glowed in the red reflection of the exit sign over the door. "Tell me again why we are doing this?"  
"Because they have guards to keep out trophy seekers and fans."  
"Right, of which we are neither and Viggo, what?" The last was said into Viggo's palm. Sean resisted the juvenile urge to lick it. The rattle of the gate closing was loud and echoed in the stillness. "Fuck," Sean said as Viggo pulled his hand away.  
"What? It's what we wanted. We have free run of the place."  
"You really are certifiable."  
Viggo grinned with no trace of Aragorn's sternness, no, not now that filming was over. The sword was put away and the costumes folded and overlooping clearly didn't require the kind of immersion that had Viggo camping in his costume for the better part of three years.  
"C'mon. They've got stuff grouped by film. We're on the wrong end."  
"Oh, aye, we're on the wrong end of Peter and Richard when they find out we've done this," Sean groused to Viggo's back, but he followed, as he always did, into yet one more mad caper.

"We're buggered."  
"Yep, I do believe we're fucked."  
Sean snorted, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Now what, James Bond?"  
"Oh, now don't tell me you and Brosnan got up to shenanigans like this? You'll break my heart."  
"Trust me, mate, I've done things with you I wouldn't consider with anyone else."  
"That's more like it." Viggo pulled a hip flask from his jacket pocket. "Your martini, double oh six. We might as well wait for the guard. No reason to trip the alarm and make a fuss for strangers"  
"And the press." Sean took the flask and sipped. "Gah. Whiskey?"  
"You don't want it, give it back."  
"Didn't say I didn't want it, just…why'd you bother carrying this about, then?"  
"Thought we might need something to warm us, in case we got locked in."  
"Your brilliant plan was to get us locked in, you fool." Sean grinned, but Viggo dropped his eyes. "What? This whole mad scheme to steal the horn of Gondor … you are never that straightforward, man." He handed back the flask and Viggo tipped it up.  
"Thought I'd get you a souvenir."  
"Oh Viggo," Sean breathed out as he leaned in close. "I don't need one." He pressed a kiss to Viggo's forehead, a mirroring of dead Boromir's benediction, then again lower, decidedly less chaste, to his lips. "I don't need a prop. I've got a King."


End file.
